Monte Cassino
by a-virtuous-pyromaniac
Summary: When seven members of the team are sick with the flu, Engie has to take care of them by himself. There's no way Soldier could help. After all, Soldier's a useless moron. No good at helping with anything. Right?


Medic lay in bed, glazed with fever. Sweaty, exhausted, joints and head aching. Vomiting whenever he ate something harsher than rice or applesauce. Breathing through his mouth because his sinuses were completely clogged. For the past two days, he'd barely left his bed, only managing to stagger to the bathroom and back.

If only Heavy would take care of him. Heavy knew was Medic needed when he was sick. He'd run a tepid bath for the doctor, carry him to the tub and back. Afterwards, he'd make him a cup of strong ginger tea and stay by the bed until Medic fell asleep. Heavy, tea, and cool bath. Was it too much to ask that? They were such simple comforts. Medic sighed. Simplicity couldn't make things happen. And simplicity couldn't change the fact that Heavy lay on the other side of Medic's bed, even sicker than the doctor.

Heavy was sleeping now, sweet relief after several hours' headaches and intermittent vomiting. Even asleep, he didn't seem any less exhausted. The dark bags hadn't faded from his eyes. His stubble-covered cheeks broadcasted that he was too sick to care for himself; Heavy would have never wanted to look so unprofessional and un-groomed. Gently, Medic slipped a hand into one of his lover's enormous paws. He stroked the palm with his thumb, as if it would somehow help someone. He wanted to comfort Heavy as badly as he wanted Heavy to comfort him. Make him tea, that tannic Russian stuff that was meant to be served in a samovar. Fluff his pillows and keep the sheets fresh and clean. Mop his face with a cool rag, and cuddle him, contagion be damned. But, in the end, it didn't matter what anyone wanted. This flu wasn't going away anytime soon. The medigun was useless against it. Respawn would only prolong it.

Faintly, Medic heard the sound of someone retching, followed by a familiar wet splatter. It was coming from the infirmary, so he could only guess who it was. Engie was going to have to run cleanup for the umpteenth time that day.

When Engie heard someone vomiting, he wanted to cry. It wasn't the mess that upset him, it was sheer exhaustion. For three days now, he'd been taking care of seven of his colleagues almost simultaneously. He had no idea why he hadn't gotten sick. He might have attributed it to his cleanliness or relatively solitary ways, but it was probably just dumb luck.

Actually, he wasn't so sure if he was the lucky one. The others got to stay in bed and rest. He had to run between them, making sure they stayed hydrated and clean and painkiller-ed. Everyone but Sniper had emptied their stomachs at least once. He had to keep alcohol in Demo; detoxing now would only make the chemist sicker. Pyro was delirious and seemed fuzzy on where she was. Spy was whining up such a storm that Engie was tempted to just leave the Frenchman to rot in his own germs. And Scout had become too weak to walk, thus introducing the engineer to the joys of cleaning out a bedpan.

And so, when somebody vomited, Engie had to choice but to haul his tired body back to the infirmary. Thankfully, Demo's stomach had been mostly empty beforehand and he'd managed to mostly hit the bucket.

"It's okay, it's okay," Engie said while Demo muttered a soggy apology. What else could he do? Engie gave Demo a few sips of water to clear out the taste and took the bucket out back so he could hose it down.

It was evening by now, the light fading into something soft and blue. The soup in the slow cooker should be getting awfully close to done. Time for him to go check on everyone. Make his evening rounds.

"His" rounds, as if he weren't completely unsuited to the role of caretaker.

He'd do Spy first. Get the most unpleasant task over and done. Sure, Spy claimed to be ill, but he was so much more functional than everyone else that Engie wasn't sure he wasn't faking. Spy wasn't even in bed. He had planted his skinny, germy ass on the common room sofa. All dolled up in a prissy dressing gown and expensive-looking slippers, as if he were trying to emulate a magazine's idea of an invalid gentleman.

"Ye-es?" said Spy when he say Engie.

"Soup's in the kitchen if you want some," said Engie, hurrying away before Spy could ask him for yet another foot rub.

Pyro next. Sickness had done nothing for the firebug's already addled mind. She had insisted in staying not in the infirmary, not in her bed, but in her closet. Something something she had to hide in the unicorn cave or something something bad men would come and make her wear a white jacket. So Engie found her curled in a nest of blankets and dirty clothes, Balloonicorn clutched in her arms.

"Hey, Py." Engie squatted down. "How ya holdin' up?"

Pyro whimpered.

"I'm sorry, darlin'. It'll get better, I promise." He stroked her greasy hair. "I made soup. Ya want some?"

Pyro shook her head.

"You been drinkin', at least?"

Pyro pointed to the empty water glass.

"All righty, then. If you need something or decide you'd rater stay in bed, just holler, okay?" Engie left the closet door open a crack and headed for the infirmary.

Before this particular flue outbreak, the infirmary's three beds had never been simultaneously occupied. With Demo, Scout and Sniper here, the place seemed far too crowded. The air seemed thicker, somehow, not because of the unwashed bodies of the cranked-up heat, but because it was absolutely saturated with germs. No, no, Engie corrected himself. There was no way to feel germs in the air. He was just getting paranoid. Exhaustion could do that do a man.

It seemed that vomiting had helped Demo feel better, because he gladly accepted the soup Engie offered. Sniper also claimed to be hungry. They seemed almost content as they slurped away and stared at the flickering TV. Engie didn't recognize the show. It seemed to be one of those stupid dramas Demo liked so much. A period piece, set in Shakespearicleasean England. Engie could tell because of the ruff-necked noblemen rocket jumping to the second floor of a castle.

Enough about that. He still had to deal with Scout. Engie was a little ashamed that his first instinct was to check on the bedpan. Thankfully, it was empty. Not so thankfully, Scout looked as awful as ever. White as a sheet, hair crusty with old sweat, body in the exact same position Engie had left him in. When the thermometer read 39.5, Engie wasn't even remotely surprised.

"Scout?" No response. Engie gave the boy's shoulders a bit of a shake. "Scout? Can you hear me?"

Scout stirred and blinked a couple times. His eyes seemed unfocused and glassy and he muttered a string of syllables that Engie didn't understand. "ghteathghajdhdhea adjadha dhad jadhf adjk wha da fuk did eye dye?"

"No, you haven't died for a couple of days," said Engie. "We're at Snakewater. It's ceasefire 'cause just about everybody's sick."

"Oh, okay." One of Scout's hands snaked out from under the blankets as if he wanted to gesture at something. "You, uh." He tried to focus his eyes on Engie's face. "You got wateh?"

There was a full tumbler sitting on the bedside table, but Engie wasn't going to hold Scout responsible for the details. He just propped up Scout's head and held the glass to his lips.

"Easy, easy. Not so fast. We don't want this coming back up."

"Whatevah."

Engie sighed and wondered if he ought to coax some soup into the boy. He might have decided against it if Scout hadn't been so damn skinny. The flu had effectively sucked away what little fat Scout had, and was probably helping itself to his muscles.

He needed some food.

There was no way Scout was going to be able to feed himself, so Engie just spooned it into him. He hoped Scout would be hungry, but he began to protest after a few spoonfuls. "I'm done, I'm done. I can't even taste it, it's weahd."

"All righty, then." Engie set the bowl down with a clink. Leaning forward, he flipped Scout onto his stomach, stripped back the blankets and quickly checked for bedsores. There were none, so he put the boy on his side and tucked the covers up to his chin. "I'll check on you again before I go to bed."

Scout didn't respond. He just lay there, looking small and weak and helpless. Engie patted him twice on the shoulder and moved on, feeling sorry.

"Heavy? Doc?" Engie rapped lightly on the bedroom door. Heavy groaned and pulled the blankets over his head.

"Doctor, could you ask Engineer to keep the lights dimmed?" he said in Russian. "I've got a splitting headache." Medic nodded, translating when Engie started to fumble for the light switch.

Heavy refused food but gladly accepted a couple aspirin. Medic allowed Engie to prop him up on pillows and bring him soup.

"You sure you're gonna be okay eatin' that in the dark?" Engie whispered. Outside, the sky was almost completely black. The only light was a thin golden strip that came in from the half-open door.

"I vill manage." Truth to be told, soup in the dark reminded Medic of the blackouts of his childhood. The only things missing were sirens and bombs. Not exactly pleasant, but still, nostalgic. He balanced the bowl in his lap, and took a cautious sip. It was as tasty as all of Engie's cooking. It wasn't exactly a cream-based soup, but there was certainly some cream in it. Maybe a little rich for sick men, but he was hardly in a position to complain. Engie had already done plenty.

"How are zhe others?"

"Scout's still a wreck," said Engie. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed at his knees. "Been keepin' him clean and fed as best I can. He's been losin' weight somethin' fierce."

"Well, zhat's not zhe best, but zhere's not much you can do. Frankly, I'm most vorried about bedsores. You've been repositionink him?"

"Every few hours, just like you said."

"God man." Medic leaned forward and patted Engie's shoulder with as much gusto as he could muster.

"Engineer is credit to team," said Heavy from under the covers.

Engie just nodded. His usually-poor posture had deteriorated even more. His head began to bob, and Medic wondered if he might fall asleep right there. He was about to tell Engie to get some rest when the door suddenly slammed open. The lights came on in a blinding blaze.

 _"_ _Ebat,"_ Heavy grunted, clutching his head. Medic tried to blink through the light, even though he already knew who it was.

"GOOD EVENING, MAGGOTS!"

Medic finally managed to focus his eye on Solider's. The team's only other healthy man was covered in sweat and mud, a raccoon clutched under his arm. The little beast's teeth didn't seem to be able to penetrate the fabric of Solider's jacket.

"Godamnit." Engie made his way to his feet and waddled towards Soldier. "Out. Now."

Soldier didn't move a millimeter. "But I must check on my men. I must help them."

"We been over this already. You're supposta stay outta my way."

"If I stay away, how can I make sure my men are not dying?"

Medic rolled his eyes. Engie gritted his teeth. "They ain't dyin'. Trust me."

"And how would you know, maggot? You have never seen a man die from disease."

"I…" Engie obviously never had. For a moment, Medic wondered if Engie would try to physically shove Solider out. He never got an answer, because the raccoon wriggled free and shot off running down the hall.

"Lieutenant Fluffybuttons! Come back at one! This is desertion!"

Engie groaned. Heavy stuck his head back out. "How long until Soldier returns?"

Medic doubted Soldier would return. The man had the attention span of a gnat. After chasing down the raccoon, he'd find something else to scream about.

"He prolly won't," said Engie, echoing Medic's thoughts. "I bet he forgets."

With that, Engie turned the lights back off, gathered up the soup bowl and prepared to go. "Anything else y'all need?"

"One more blanket, if okay," said Heavy. "Am cold."

"Don't worry," said Engie, retrieving said blanket and draping it over them. "Holler if you need anything. I'll see you tomorrow."

Medic woke up drenched in sweat. Too many blankets were piled on top of him and Heavy radiated more heat than a nuclear reactor. Shuffling to edge of the bed and kicking off the layers didn't help. He felt disgusting. His skin and hair seemed to be coated in grease and sour residue of soup lingered in his mouth.

Enough. He needed to brush his teeth and take a shower. Now.

Medic leapt to his feet with the speed and enthusiasm of his healthy self and almost fell over. Two days of disuse and his legs were already wobbly. The short walk to the bathroom left his muscles spasming and his stomach churning.

Water. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Brushing with as much vigor as he could muster. When he spat, he mouth felt so fresh and clean that he knew it had been worth it.

Shower now. What he really wanted was a bath, but the Snakewater base didn't have any tubs. He turned on the water and waited for it to warm. His legs were really shaking now. Leaning against the wall helped. A little. Even with the support, he felt his legs crumple underneath him. Surely it wouldn't hurt to sit down. He'd get up in a moment.

"Why are you sleeping in here, maggot? You have a rack!"

Medic dragged his eyes open. He could barely see Solider through the steamy air. Had he fainted? How long had he been there? Long enough for the shower to heat to practically boiling, that was for sure.

"I just need a shower." Medic tried to get to his feet, but his limbs did not cooperate.

"Stop that," said Solider. "You look like you will fall. You are old and will a break a hip."

Medic swore under his breath. He was only, what, five years older than Solider? "Vell, I'm not goink to just sit here."

"You'd better not! You stink! I can smell you from here." With that, Solider bent down and grabbed the hem of Medic's nightshirt.

"Vhat are you doink?"

"Hold still, maggot." Soldier got the shirt off surprisingly easily. If Medic hadn't known better, he'd have sworn Soldier had some experience in undressing people. The pants came off next. Then Solider unceremoniously stripped, grabbed Medic by his armpits and dragged him under the shower jets.

Some part of Medic wanted to screech. He was being manhandled by a naked man who was not Heavy. Even worse, his bare skin was touching the unsanitized bathroom floor. But there was no time for screeching. Solider squirted out a handful of Mann Shampoo and scrubbed Medic as if the doctor were a Labrador. Quick, efficient, not exactly gentle, but it still managed to feel kind of nice. Solider dragged Medic back out of the shower, wrapped him in a towel, propped him up in the corner, and proceeded to wash himself. One soapy hand went through Soldier's sensible haircut and another over his body. Just like a solider who'd been told he only had three minutes for a shower.

By now, Medic was shivering. Some combination of hot water, cool air, and fever had thrown him completely out of whack. He didn't have to shiver long, though, because Soldier dressed, wrapped another towel around Medic's shoulders and picked him up, fireman-style. This was the exact same carry Medic had used on injured soldiers during the war. It wasn't graceful, but it got a downed man where he needed to be.

"You do not seem to like using lights," said Solider, kicking the bedroom door open. The door slammed into the opposite wall with a loud thunk, but the sleeping Heavy didn't stir.

Medic expected Soldier to dump him on the bed like a sack of potatoes, but Soldier set him down almost gently.

"Where are your clothes?" said Solider.

"Vhat?"

"Or do you sleep naked?"

"Oh. Zhat. Undervear in zhe top drawer," said Medic. "Pajamas under zhat." Soldier retrieved the clothes, muttering about how real men slept in tank tops and boxers. Medic ignored it and allowed Solider to help him dress. Collar. Sleeve, sleeve. There was no unnecessary yanking, fumbling, or shouting.

"You are surprisingly good at zhis," said Medic, almost surprised at himself.

"Of course I am good! I have practiced."

"Ah, yes. Zhe raccoons."

"Raccoons do not wear faggy pajamas, maggot. I have practiced with people!" Seeing Medic's incredulous expression, he added. "During Cassino, there were bodies all over the hills."

Cassino? The Battle of Monte Cassino? 1944? Solider had been there?

"If a man's holding his guts and screaming at the sky, do you wait for a medic to come around and fix? No! You cut off his clothes, fix him up with beer and tape and haul him to an ambulance. Do it right, and it won't hurt him more. And when all the nurses are falling over exhausted, a real American volunteers to step in."

Medic remembered Monte Cassino. He had been stationed in Murmansk at the time. He'd been in the operating room, trying to stuff some poor teenager-cum-soldier's intestines back into his body when one of the orderlies had come rushing in, crying that Rome had been captured.

"You are looking at me funny. Why is that?"

"It's nothing," said Medic.

"Don't be shy, maggot. We are all Americans here!"

"It's not a funny look. My face is just tired."

Amazingly, Soldier seemed to buy it. Without another word, he gave Medic's pillow a couple punches that were supposed to be fluffing, and slipped it under the doctor's head. Looking at the blankets, he seemed to realize Medic would incinerate under two comforters and draped just the sheet over him.

Medic let out a sound that was half a sigh, half a moan. Bed was lovely. Soft and cool, and he felt delightfully clean. If only could have had some tea. Thick, spicy ginger to settle his stomach and soothe his throat. No, no. Best not to ask anything of Soldier. Even with something as simple as tea, he'd manage to screw it up somehow.

"Your face is tired? I am tired, too," said Solider.

"A good workout vill do that to you."

"Not that! There is no workout that will best me! I do Australian jujitsu and it has made me indestructible." Soldier paused, as if he had momentarily forgotten what he was trying to say. Then his face seemed to light up and he continued. "I am only tired of doing Australian jujitsu and everything else alone, because Engineer will not let me near my men."

Medic pushed himself to his elbows and blinked at Soldier. His initial instinct was disgust – Soldier was a lunatic, a lead-poisoned idiot, as crazy as Pyro but without any sweetness.

A drip of water came out of his still-damp hair and trickled down his neck. He brushed it away with his hand. Without Soldier, he'd probably still be wiping sweat off the back of his neck.

He hadn't known about Monte Cassino and neither did Engie.

"How about zhis," said Medic. "I vill talk to Engie. He vill listen…"

"You're the only one he listens to."

"Yes, I know. But in return, I need you to make me some tea."

"Tea?" Soldier screwed up his face. For a moment, Medic wondered if Soldier would also find a way to poke fun at the tea.

"Tea? That's what you want? That's easy! Tea doesn't even fight back." With that, he turned on his heals and charged off, slammed the door open as he exited.

"Ginger, please," Medic called after him.

Between the slamming and the stomping, Heavy finally stirred. He opened his eyes halfway. "What was that?" he muttered in Russian. "I could have sworn I heard someone talking."

"Shhh, go back to sleep," Medic replied in the same language. He twisted his fingers through Heavy. "No need to worry. Everything's fine."

Was this really fine? Soldier was going to have his calloused hands on everyone. Raccoon-hoarding Solider, shouting his nonsense while he cared for the sick. Then again, the agreement was over and done. No point in regretting it now. Medic settled back and tried to relax, eyelids suddenly very heavy.

Soldier came back with the tea soon after. The hot water left a layer of foggy condensation along the edge of the plastic juice glass. Those tea bags were tough little bastards, difficult to tear open, but he had defeated them in the end. Black leaf particles bobbed on the surface of the water.

But when Soldier got back to the bedroom, Medic had already fallen asleep. Soldier just left the tea on the bedside table. When he woke, Medic would see it and remember to talk to Engineer.


End file.
